Chapter 1 #2
To further solidify my decision to stay away from men, listenership dropped the year I was “happily” coupled.
So, now I’m here. Single, successful, and so starved for novelty that I’ve started reading erotica-adjacent conspiracy threads in the middle of interviews.
Which feels like its own kind of rock bottom.
I spin in my chair, letting out a bone-deep sigh.
“I don’t even know what else I could do,” I admit, quieter now.
Marissa leans forward, elbows resting on her knees. “That’s the fun part. We figure it out.”
“Fun,” I repeat skeptically.
“Terrifying,” she corrects. “But not not fun.”
I let out a huff of a laugh, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t know, Riss. I built this on being in the know on relationships, sex, and culture. I can’t just pivot to… What? What did I even like before this shit?”
The second the words leave my mouth, her eyes light up.
“When I met you, you loved weird shit! D., I say this with all the love in the world, but you were such a freak in high school. You organized every midnight premiere of the Twilight movies. Remember when you dressed up as a vampire?”
“Okay, rude,” I scoff. “I’m still a freak and you know it.”
“But seriously, let’s get your sparkle back,” she snorts. “Get it?”
I roll my eyes at her, hiding a smile.
“But really, let’s try something weird. Let’s…” She pauses, her eyes landing on my laptop screen. “Let’s do THAT!” She points at my screen.
Oh, fuck, no.
“No,” I snap. “Absolutely not. Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
She grins. “Hear me out.”
“I will not hear you out.”
“Just hear me out.”
I point at her. “You get one sentence.”
She holds up a finger. “You need something fresh. Something immersive. Something that gets you out of this studio and back out there!” Marissa dramatically waves her arms toward the window.
“That’s already more than one sentence,” I deadpan.
She groans with all the big-sister energy she has. “Come on, D., work with me here.” She falls silent, deep in thought, then gasps. “What if we sent you on assignment?”
I blink. “Assignment? I haven’t done anything outside The DL except a few small miniseries. Like, ever.”
“It’s exactly that, but reported from the field rather than the studio. A limited series or miniseries, still under DL with Daisy. Something that still fits your brand—relationships, human behavior, and jokes—but in a completely new setting.”
“And that setting is…?”
She leans back, clearly enjoying herself. “Bigfoot hunting.”
I stare at her.
She stares back and raises her eyebrows.
We both sit there for a solid five seconds before I start laughing.
“Oh my God,” I wheeze. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“Marissa.”
“Daisy.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I stand by what I said, bitch.”
“I interview celebrities. I talk about the best blow job techniques. I do not—” I gesture wildly—“strap on hiking boots and chase a mythical ape man in the forest.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s insane. It’s not what my audience listens to me for.”
“Exactly,” she says. “It’s different.”
I shake my head, still laughing. “Absolutely not. They’re just going to expect me to talk about Bigfoot’s dick size or something. There’s no way—”
“You literally just said you find it fascinating.”
“That’s from the comfort of my ergonomic chair. With Wi-Fi. And coffee.”
“So we find a crew that understands that. We bring the coffee,” she counters.
I rest my head in my hands. “It's not that exciting, though. They're not always in the woods, Riss. They're usually just sitting around, watching thermal imaging. Ghost hunters, but boring.”
“So you make it fun! You can really make these people into characters,” she nods.
I look up at her from between my hands.
She’s not joking anymore. I consider what she just said. I know I could nail a funny approach, but then I risk looking like a dick. Or I could take a sincere, human-interest angle, in which case I could look like a conspiracy theorist. I sigh.
“I’m just giving you some tough love,” she says. “You’re too good at what you do to coast, Daisy.”
My eyes well up a little at her compliment.
I never know what to do with nice people.
But also, what if I’m not better than what I’ve been doing?
I’ve only been a cultural sex podcaster.
That’s it. People know what to expect, and I deliver.
I hate that it’s all I’m known for, but what if I’m not good at anything else, or people don’t like it when I talk about—God forbid—anything else?
“This—” she gestures toward my laptop, the articles still open—“this is the first time in months I’ve seen you light up about something.
A spark in your eye. It’s like when you dove deep into ghosting while dating apps were peaking.
Those episodes exploded. People pick up on that energy from you. ” She shrugs.
I open my mouth to argue. Nothing comes out.
She’s not wrong.
I glance back at the screen. Another blurry photo. Another story. Another person convinced they’ve encountered something real.
Something unknown.
“Seriously, you could do a limited series,” Marissa says.
“Five episodes, maybe. Safely under The DL with Daisy. It could use a format similar to the series you did with that rock band, where you followed them on tour for a bit. You embed yourself with the crew. You document everything. I’m not saying you turn this into a total pivot or anything.
Make it editorial. What they do, why they believe, and the dynamics between them.
It’s still about people, relationships, and culture.
Just a very specific subculture. You do what you do and bring humor to it. ”
“And if it’s not worth anything?” I ask.
“Then you come home,” she offers. “And we pivot again. But at least you tried something and got out of this room.” She looks around.
Empty cans of Diet Coke and iced coffee cups are stacked on my desk.
While I try to project the image of someone who has it all together in an off-the-shoulder black tee, jeans, and heels, Marissa knows better.
She gives me a lingering up-and-down look, taking in my messy bun.
“With love, you should take a bath and put on some sweats.”
I exhale, tapping my manicured nails against the desk.
This is so far outside my lane it’s practically in another state.
And yet…
“How long do you think I could have, Miss Producer?” I ask.
She can’t hide her satisfied smile. “A few weeks, maybe a month. You’ve got a backlog of content. And we can bring back flashback Friday episodes for a little while to tide us over.”
“A month,” I repeat.
“Max.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “And how do I find a crew?”
“I’m on it.”
“Of course you are,” I echo. Marissa doesn’t pitch half-baked ideas. She pitches fully formed, terrifying ones.
“Let’s take the night to think about it. Sleep on it, okay?” she suggests.
“Deal,” I say, standing to tuck my laptop into my bag. We shut down the studio and say our goodbyes.
By the time I get home, LA feels quieter than it should.
Or maybe that’s just me—everything dialed down after a day spent pretending to be on.
My heels come off somewhere between the front door and the kitchen, abandoned like evidence of a version of myself I’m not sure I want to keep playing.
I toss my bag onto the counter, stare at it for a second as if it might have answers, then keep moving.
Wine feels like the obvious choice, but I skip it.
That feels cliché. Instead, I grab a cherry ginger kombucha, twist the cap, and let the fizz fill the silence.
I don’t turn on any lights beyond the soft glow over the stove as I head to my bedroom.
The apartment is all clean lines and neutral tones—very grown woman who has her life together.
Which is funny, because right now I feel like I’m standing in the middle of it with absolutely no idea what the next move is supposed to be.
Before I landed on this podcast persona, I loved pulling people into conspiracy-theory rabbit holes with me.
And then I hid that part of me. So I can’t deny there’s a buzz of excitement under my skin, but that has to be just nerves because this is ridiculous to even think about. I mean, Bigfoot hunting?
I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I strip off my jeans and put on sweatpants. “You’ve officially lost it, babe,” I murmur to myself.
But instead of dismissing it, my brain does the annoying thing of lingering. It replays Marissa’s voice. You’re too good at what you do to coast.
I sigh, padding into the living room. My couch practically swallows me whole when I drop onto it, curling into the corner like I’ve done a thousand times after a long day.
Remote in hand, I scroll through shows without thinking—half watching thumbnails blur together, half still stuck in that conversation.
Then I see it. A new Bigfoot documentary.
I pause.
There’s no world where I should be watching this. I know that. This is how it starts: ironic viewing evolves into Googling “credible Sasquatch evidence” at two in the morning, like someone who has fully unraveled.
“Absolutely not,” I say, already pressing play.
The theme music kicks in—dramatic, campy, intense—and I sink further into the couch, pulling a blanket over my legs like I’m settling in for the long haul.
The camera cuts to a group of people in stained hiking gear and camo standing in the woods, whispering about “possible structures” and “tree breaks.”
“This is so stupid,” I whisper through a smile.
But I don’t turn it off, and I don’t stop smiling.